But First, I Think
by kayura sanada
Summary: Sometimes love is like gently rolling waves lapping at the rock until it folds. Or, in which an everyday event inspires in Arthur some not-so-everyday revelations.


Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. I also don't own Sweeney Todd, from which the title is derived.

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But First, I Think

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It was just another odd thing about Merlin, Arthur decided, letting his head hang back slightly as Merlin washed the razor and set the soap on the table. Normally, he wouldn't let Merlin within a two-kilometer radius of anything sharp, and he most certainly wouldn't let Merlin use it near his face. That was just common sense; Merlin had a tendency to trip or fall or otherwise make himself look an absolute fool, and anything sharp in his general vicinity would be a nearly lethal weapon – not on his enemies, but on Arthur and perchance himself.

So normally, Arthur wouldn't let Merlin hold a letter opener, let alone a razor.

But, he thought, listening to Merlin putter around behind him, this was somehow entirely different.

Merlin always had this tendency to be a bit dull. Just on the edge of idiocy, scraping through to the other side with some weirdly wise idioms just when things got really tough. But whenever Arthur was involved, Merlin's ditzy spaciness turned into something else. He became stubborn with Arthur's safety, accommodating to Arthur's moods, careful with Arthur's feelings. And as Merlin smoothed the soap onto Arthur's morning bristles, Arthur thought maybe it was time to wonder why.

Even though Merlin normally couldn't find it in him to shut his mouth even when surrounded by enemies, he knew that this was a time when Arthur just sat back and thought, and he always left him alone. It was silently that Merlin finished lathering Arthur's stubble and silently that he placed the razor against Arthur's neck. Merlin kept Arthur's razor as sharp as the rest of his tools, and it was with less pressure than a breath of air that Merlin made his first scrape up Arthur's neck.

Merlin's heat was centered behind and over him. It caused an odd feeling of contentment, of protection. Even though Merlin was no fighter – again with the note on Merlin and proximity to sharp, deadly objects – Arthur knew no one would be more willing to put his life on the line for him. It was humbling to know someone so weak could willingly give so much.

And then another scrape, and a short wash to get the soap and bristles off the razor, Merlin's breath quiet behind him. Those long fingers were gentle on the side of his jaw as Merlin bent back down. His face got caught full in the face by one of that handkerchief, and it was in Arthur to protest. He didn't. So of course the handkerchief became as annoying as its owner, rubbing up and down over his eyes and nose and Merlin scraped up once, then twice. Almost Arthur pulled on it, just to see how Merlin would respond, but since the response would most likely include flailing, and said flailing would include previous razor, Arthur refrained.

It was calming, he decided. Having Merlin so nearby, surrounding him. If he were to wonder why, it felt like he might break something important, something delicate and balanced and fragile. Which was absurd, because though he was king regent and Merlin was his servant, their relationship was forged in fire, harder than steel. And though Merlin looked like nothing more than a waif, he was still a man, and he was strong. Not physically strong – the very thought nearly made Arthur laugh, and Merlin carefully waited for his Adam's apple to stop bobbing before continuing – but strong of heart.

But still, the feeling persisted. And of course it was that very feeling that drove Arthur to act. He had never been one to shy from a battle, even an internal one, and he certainly wouldn't start now. A king could not afford to be a coward.

So he wondered why he didn't complain about Merlin's handkerchief on his face, and realized he liked the smell, the heat, the closeness of Merlin when it happened. It didn't even take long; he'd already noted how having Merlin in two of his vulnerable areas – behind and above – didn't bother him in the slightest. All it took was a careful inhale to realize it was a bit more than that. Merlin smelled of the forest and Gaius' herbs, of crap soap and a slight tang of sweat – most likely, Arthur mused, the fool had woken up late again and had rushed to wake Arthur on time. And somehow the thought of it, the knowledge, the near ability to actually see it as it must have happened, made warmth curl in his gut. Merlin finished with his neck and cleaned the razor again, and the loss of heat was almost damaging. Arthur wanted to reach up, hook Merlin's neck, and force him back. This time, the danger of being skewered was a bit more negligible, but seeing as he still didn't know what he wanted to do it for, he let the opportunity slide.

Merlin's fingers trailed up to his cheek, turning it slightly. As always, that simple touch, which Arthur's eyes closed, made him shiver. And as always, Merlin pulled his hand away and rubbed it with his other, until there was warmth in the fingers that returned to rest once more on Arthur's cheek. And as always, Arthur stopped himself from telling Merlin had his hands were fine, that he didn't know the reason why he shivered, but was certain it had nothing to do with lack of warmth, because every time it happened, he was suffused with heat.

The slip of the razor scratched from his ear to his chin, and he rested his head lightly against Merlin's chest as he worked.

In fact, he realized, everything in his life had become routine. Even the non-routine parts. There were things he could always count on. Gwen would be in the hall when he needed to see her most, because she would likely need to see him around the same time. His men would be up for anything he brought up, even the most hare-brained folly, and they would fight by his side. And no matter where he went or what he did, he would have his own personal shadow beside him. And days like this – moments like this – would continue forever.

And while there was a ridiculous amount of comfort in something so banal, there was also something stifling to it. Because his life had been reduced to a sort of tedium? No. More like a part of him was shimmering under his skin, like he was ready for a fight but couldn't yet step into the battlefield. It wasn't one of being caged in, but one of being on the brink of war, staring out across the field at his enemies and having to stand still.

Merlin's breath ghosted lightly over his face as the fool traced the last path of the razor before cleaning the thing and retracing. It was absurd; the fool always paid more attention to Arthur's looks, his presence, than he did anything else. If Arthur told Merlin to muck out the stables, he would almost always find something the boy had missed – dirty hay, a tool out of place, a dirty hoof. But never was there a single speck of rust or dullness on his weapons and armor, never a single wrinkle in his clothing – well, the clothing he wore for court; his hunting clothes were more often than not simply thrown into his cupboard, if they ever made it there at all. And Arthur's features were always fixed and primped before he went out to meet his people. Merlin always made sure Arthur looked every inch the king.

Merlin always put Arthur first.

A part of him thought that should be so. Arthur _was_ king, after all – well, king regent, his father was very much still alive – but Arthur thought there might have been more to it than that. One didn't simply follow one's king into certain death simply because he was one's sovereign. There was more to it than that. So why did Merlin follow him everywhere? He wasn't a knight. He wasn't a warrior. Hell, the very thought of Merlin as such nearly made Arthur laugh again, and this time Merlin held the razor still as Arthur's lips twitched. When they settled again, Merlin finished his left cheek and tilted Arthur's head to the other side.

Somehow, for the first time in his life, Arthur finally realized that Merlin's world revolved around him, and that it might be considered a bit strange. How had he never noticed that Merlin never seemed to have a girlfriend? A lover? Merlin hung around him, spoke with his knights, worked with Gaius. Where was the woman in Merlin's life?

And then as soon as the thought coalesced in his mind, an odd anger jumped in his veins, and his fists clenched. He wanted to fight. To battle. To _punch something_ so hard it caved in on itself. Preferably someone's face.

Merlin suddenly sighed behind him. "Do I even want to know what's had you in such a mood today?" he asked, and it derailed his thoughts. Thank goodness.

"I doubt you would even be able to comprehend a thought process, _Mer_lin." It felt _good_. Talking with Merlin like this always felt so good. Like laying down armaments after a well-won battle. And when he opened his eyes and peeked up, looking into those blue eyes up above his own, something settled in his gut. Like speaking with Gwen and getting her advice. Like drinking with Lancelot and Gwaine down at the tavern. Like a peaceful walk through the forest. All burdens unloaded, free to be himself.

"If it's your thought process, sire, then I'm sure I'll manage."

Arthur snorted. He couldn't help himself. Merlin took to cleaning the razor when it became apparent Arthur was going to allow a conversation. "You overestimate yourself, Merlin. It's a rather undesirable attribute. A man should know his weaknesses."

"I'm sure you know everyone of yours, sire."

Arthur couldn't help it; he laughed. How could Merlin be such a fool in most things but so quick-witted during these tête-à-têtes? It was like the man was actually two people. It made Arthur want to get inside Merlin's head. "Best a man know himself, Merlin," he said, pretending that Merlin hadn't been hiding an insult in that rebuttal. "Less he forget his own limits. His place, one might say."

Merlin snorted. "Is this your way of saying shut up, my lord?"

Arthur grinned. He managed to change it enough to look like a smirk. "Very good, Merlin. You _can_ be taught."

"And you say I can't comprehend your thought processes, my lord," Merlin said placidly, as if he hadn't managed to win that little argument with just that remark, and Arthur let himself be settled back down before Merlin returned the razor to his right cheek. Merlin waited a moment, just in case Arthur wanted to make some sort of snide remark, and Arthur nearly smiled again at the knowledge that yes, Merlin knew every nuance of his personality, every part of him, and Arthur didn't fear the knowledge in the slightest. Merlin would never betray him.

That was what he wanted to do, he realized, the slight grate of razor on skin nearly sounding like claws on stone as the knowledge filtered unguarded into his mind. He wanted to kiss his manservant.

He thought perhaps he'd momentarily lost his mind. Almost he pulled sharply away from his seat, but he sense of self-preservation stopped him. Best not to test Merlin's poor reflexes.

_Kiss_ his manservant? What in god's name had possessed him? Yet, if he looked at his his own reactions objectively, what other conclusion could he reach? A feeling of safety in being wrapped in Merlin's arms. While he felt cherished, happy, content with Gwen, _safe_ had never played a part in it. Perhaps that was camaraderie, but if so, it was one he didn't share with his knights.

And then the burning sense of anger at the very thought of Merlin getting a lover. The thought of Merlin's gaze being pulled from him was bad enough. Like having his sword ripped from his hand, it was a loss of something integral, something he needed for survival. But if he added something _new_ for Merlin to look at – a woman, he thought, probably dark-haired, shy, innocent, with a smile that flitted out like butterfly's wings.

And there was that all-consuming anger again. Could it be jealousy? How absurd. He wasn't interested in his _manservant_. Firstly, he was a _man._ Hence the man- part of manservant. Secondly, the man was a bumbling fool. Arthur thought of actually kissing him, of pressing his lips to Merlin's, and...

Stopped. Paused. Rewound. Because while his heart indeed beat faster at the consideration, it... it wasn't in fear or horror, but in nervousness. Anticipation. He took it to that next step, that meeting of lips. The heat in him soared. Merlin's touch, the light-as-feathers touch of his thumb as he scraped down by Arthur's mouth, then on the dip of his chin – as if pressing Arthur's lips into shape for a kiss. If anything, the heat got higher. He nearly gasped.

He wanted to kiss his manservant.

He had lost his mind.

Was it magic? Suddenly he very much wanted it to be magic. An enchantment. What the purpose would be, he hadn't the foggiest, but he sincerely hoped it was magic.

Then he thought, how long would it have needed to be on him? And wouldn't it have worked faster? Because this feeling of warmth with Merlin at his back was not new. He'd felt it for years. And the belief that Merlin should remain by his side wasn't new, either. He remembered first thinking it before Merlin ever drank from that poisoned chalice, because Merlin was the only person who didn't play obeisant whenever Arthur entered the room. No, these were ingrained in his bones, and unless some sorcerer had been waiting years for this moment when an enchantment could be done in seconds, there was no reason to believe magic was involved.

Which complicated _everything_.

Without magic as an excuse, he had nothing to blame but himself. No wonder he hadn't wanted to scratch the hornet's nest. No wonder he'd felt as if he were laying siege to his own mind when he started down this mental path. What would he tell Gwen? What _could_ he tell Gwen? "I know I've romanced you for years, but it appears I have an at least equal attraction to my bumbling fool of a manservant. So sorry, best of luck"? No. The very thought nearly made him shudder. Only the gentle touch of the razor on his chin stopped him. Merlin once again pulled away to clean the thing, and Arthur nearly yanked him back. The loss of warmth was somehow even worse while he worked through this epiphany.

Of course, his people wouldn't hear of it. He needed a queen. An heir. He needed to be what his people expected. And they expected him to take a wife. He couldn't possibly allow Merlin to be his 'companion'; the very idea had always been abhorrent to him. It was even more so now, as he knew his father had at the very least taken a lover while his mother had still been alive (Morgana was older than him, though not by much; it was possible his mother had gotten pregnant with him while his father had welcomed Morgana's birth, a consideration that made Arthur's stomach shift unpleasantly). He couldn't do that to any woman he took as queen, and he wouldn't do such a thing to Merlin.

Then he realized he was actually considering such long-term issues and stilled in shock.

Merlin sighed as he reached over again, even as Arthur obligingly curled his upper lip to make it easier for Merlin to shave. "Seriously, Arthur, whatever you're thinking about, I'm amazed you haven't given yourself a headache, whipping through emotions like that."

He nearly had. And while he believed he had an acceptable poker face, he no longer bothered to pretend Merlin couldn't see straight through it. He watched Merlin's face as the man shaved his upper lip. Those blue eyes were so focused on what he was doing. As if to give him the slightest cut was to leave him bleeding to death. As if Arthur was his life.

Merlin finished and turned around once more, cleaning the razor for the last time that day. Was it insane to worry about his people's reactions when he didn't even know how Merlin would respond to his... affections? Was it insane for a king regent to worry and not to act?

Merlin picked up the towel to clean Arthur up, and Arthur finally reached up and dragged Merlin down to him. The idiot yelped a bit, just before their lips met. No time to hesitate on the battlefield, Arthur thought, and twisted the angle of his lips until Merlin's fit against his, and he was surprised at how perfect the fit was. Symmetrical. And it didn't feel awkward, as he'd thought kissing a man should have been. It felt like a successful charge into enemy territory. It felt like victory.

Merlin kissed him back.


End file.
